Crime in the Choir

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Olivia had been head hunted by St Mary’s well before the latest developments.’ Permissible to bend the truth in the circumstances.

  ‘Well, you know your own business, I suppose.’ The DCI’s voice would have curdled milk.

  Too bloody right, so back off!

  ‘But I trust, Inspector, that the high standards of personal and professional conduct that I expect of my officers will not be compromised by any conflict of interest.’

  For an instant, Markham wished passionately that he could give vent to a cathartic burst of contempt and punch the man’s lights out. A glance at Noakes, mutely sympathetic, helped him bring his feelings under control.

  ‘Of course, sir.’ He did his finest impersonation of a plank of wood. It appeared to satisfy the other.

  ‘Right, just so long as that’s understood. Press conference later, and I’d advise you to be word perfect. One other thing. Have we got ID for the bodies in the grottoes?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Though I’m not sure it takes us much further. It’s in my report.’ Markham passed over a folder. ‘Two casual workers. Looks like they were on the payroll of one of the subcontractors via the Community Jobs Initiative for the long-term unemployed. I’ll see if Edward Preston – he’s the architect – can flesh it out for us.’ Not the most fortunate choice of words, he realized, as Sidney’s scowl deepened.

  ‘You do that, Inspector.’

  With a regal wave of the hand, the DCI indicated that the interview was over.

  As they headed to the cathedral, Noakes stole a sideways glance at the DI who drove stony-faced, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

  He reckoned it was DCI Sidney’s sneering reference to Olivia which had got under Markham’s skin. For the umpteenth time, he wondered about the relationship between the red-haired schoolmarm and his guvnor whose chilly impenetrability repelled any exchange of confidential chit-chat. ‘S. E. X.’ was his wife’s verdict, delivered with pursed lips. But Noakes sensed something much deeper. As though Olivia was somehow Markham’s centre of gravity.

  He blinked in surprise. Fancy his coming over all poetical. Such was the bewildering effect that Olivia had upon him, as though an exotic bird of paradise had strayed into a pigeon fancier’s coop.

  Completing the short journey in silence, they drew up in the cathedral car park.

  Canon Woodcourt hurried out of the narthex to greet them before ushering the two men into a quiet office tucked away to the side. Observing Noakes’s look of apprehension as he took in the prayer room sign, Woodcourt chuckled.

  ‘It’s all right, Detective. You don’t have to worry about speaking in tongues or anything like that. This is just our all-purpose space for anything from Mums ’n’ Tots to bereavement counselling.’ Switching the Vacant panel to Meeting in Progress, he announced, ‘Nobody will disturb us in here.’

  Markham stifled a groan as he saw that a reception committee awaited them. Dr O’Keefe, Sir Philip Soames, and a third man who he guessed was Alex Sharpe were sitting at an oak refectory table.

  They had barely taken their places before Sharpe went on the offensive.

  ‘In the first place, I want to say that I strongly object to your badgering my wife when she was unwell and I wasn’t available to support her.’

  Some knight in shining armour you’d have been, thought Markham, flinching at the strident, hectoring tones which, from the way he shifted in his chair, also grated uncomfortably on Sir Philips’s ears. The man’s a bully, he said to himself, taking in the jutting jaw, double chins and suspicious curranty eyes. No wonder that poor pug-faced woman looked as though she’d had the life sucked out of her.

  ‘We paid the briefest of visits, Mr Sharpe, and there was no question of harassment. I apologize if any distress was caused to Mrs Sharpe, but we were anxious to speak to Irene Hummles’s former colleagues.’

  Markham’s voice was courteous but his expression deadly.

  ‘Naturally we appreciate you were just carrying out your inquiries, Inspector,’ said Woodcourt pacifically, quelling Sharpe with a look. ‘But this has been the most terrible shock to our community here. Distressing enough to learn that the grottoes had been defiled, but to discover that Irene’s body was literally mouldering above our heads all this time … she was a devout woman, but didn’t even receive a Christian burial.’

  Taking off his spectacles, the canon began to polish them vigorously with a snowy-white handkerchief.

  Quietly and unobtrusively, O’Keefe left the group, reappearing moments later from what Markham assumed was a galley kitchen. Woodcourt gave him a grateful look and sipped from a glass of water.

  ‘I suppose there’s no doubt as to the identity of the remains, Inspector?’

  This was Sir Philip.

  ‘We’ll receive formal confirmation later today, sir, but I would say no doubt at all.’

  ‘I assume the tragedy has its roots in Ms Hummles’s private life,’ resumed Soames. He turned to Woodcourt, ‘I’m sorry, Canon, but one must presume that all was not what it seemed.’

  Markham declined to be intimidated. ‘With respect, Sir Philip, it isn’t as cut and dried as that. Given the discovery at the grottoes and the fact that Irene was known to be upset about two missing students, we must consider the possibility that the answer to these mysteries lies here at St Mary’s.’

  As though in response to some internal prompting, Markham made no mention of Nat, Julian and the Night Watchman.

  Sir Philip leaned across the table and Markham felt the full blast of his personality.

  ‘You know what this means. The proud heritage of St Mary’s, devotedly nurtured by generations of my family, will be besmirched by prurient sensationalism and scandal-mongering.’

  His voice was low but insistent, its fierce sibilance shredding the silence like a scythe. The remarkable eyes blazed in their deep, bruised sockets.

  You had to hand it to the DI, thought Noakes in admiration, as Markham regarded Sir Philip calmly. The man had the strength of a steel wall.

  ‘Be assured, Sir Philip, we will proceed as sensitively as possible and with all due respect for St Mary’s reputation, but it would be negligent to focus exclusively on Irene’s personal history—’

  ‘That’s rich, talking about negligence when your lot ignored what was right under their noses!’ sneered Sharpe.

  Markham continued inexorably as if there had been no interruption. ‘—and it stands to reason that we must focus on the place where she was last seen alive.’

  ‘We are a family at St Mary’s, Inspector.’ The Canon sounded choked. ‘Irene was well-loved. It’s inconceivable that anyone here could have wished her ill.’

  O’Keefe laid a concerned hand on Woodcourt’s shoulder and patted it reassuringly. Clearly, the short period of their acquaintance was enough for there to have sprung up a strong mutual respect.

  The principal raised his eyes anxiously to Markham. ‘This has been terribly unsettling for the school, Inspector. My telephone has been ringing off the hook. Parents, journalists,’ he sighed exasperatedly, ‘and nosy parkers by the dozen. There was a gaggle of journalists and snoopers hanging around earlier, shouting intrusive questions and frightening some of the boys. Took me an age to get shot of them.’

  ‘We can help you with that, sir,’ said Noakes, pulling out his police notebook. ‘I’ll get our press office to field enquiries and generally run interference.’

  A look of relief washed over O’Keefe’s face, the strain of his baptism of fire suddenly very apparent.

  ‘Of course, staff are deeply concerned as well,’ he added. ‘I mean, three bodies discovered on site in quick succession. I’m half expecting a flurry of resignations.’

  ‘Let’s get the weekend over,’ advised Markham, ‘and then I’ll do a briefing first thing on Monday morning followed by interviews. We’ll try to cause as little disruption to your timetable – and to the cathedral services – as possible.’

  O’Keefe nodded. He shot Sharpe a w
arning look. ‘I promise you’ll be afforded every assistance, Inspector.’

  At that moment, the door burst open and Edward Preston breezed into the room with the exuberance of a red setter.

  Markham had to admit that Noakes’s rather jaundiced pen portrait for once had not exaggerated. The architect’s glowing good looks irradiated the prayer room, his bright handsome head casting Alex Sharpe into the shade. The Director of Music appeared to feel diminished by the contrast.

  ‘Good of you to spare a moment of your precious time,’ he muttered sarcastically.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Preston, quite unruffled and in perfect command of the situation. Looking straight at Markham, he declared, ‘I’m not sure I can shed any light, Inspector, but please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  Markham passed him a sheet of paper. ‘We’ve got IDs for the bodies in the grottoes, sir. Jacob Smith and Colin Saunders, two casual labourers working for one of the subcontractors under a local enterprise scheme. Photos and details are there.’

  Preston scrutinized the sheet carefully but his face was blank. ‘Sorry, Inspector, I don’t recognize either of them. But,’ an air of constraint clouded the perfect features and a note of embarrassment crept into his delivery, ‘as you probably know, there have been interruptions to the restoration work, so I haven’t been on site throughout. But that’s not to say one of my team mightn’t remember them. Leave this with me and I’ll ask around.’

  Good, thought Markham, at least I can count on O’Keefe and Preston. The canon’s too shell-shocked to be much use right now and Sharpe has clearly decided we’re fascist oppressors. Well, two out of four’s something, I suppose.

  Woodcourt seemed to have drawn strength from Preston’s youthful vigour. Rousing himself with an effort, he smiled bravely at his colleagues.

  ‘Right, I must get ready for Evensong. There will be special prayers for Irene, of course, with a full requiem in due course for the repose of her soul, as she would have wanted.’ His lip trembled. ‘We’ll pray for God’s mercy towards her … and towards us all.’

  O’Keefe accompanied the canon to the door, gently murmuring words of comfort.

  Sir Philip intoned solemnly, ‘May her soul be reborn in the astral light.’

  That’s not C. of E.!

  The look Noakes sent Markham was more expressive than if the DS had uttered the words aloud. Luckily, Sir Philip promptly took his leave, not however before informing Markham that he looked forward to receiving a full briefing ‘at your earliest convenience’.

  Sharpe followed suit, ostentatiously consulting his watch, leaving Preston to escort the two policemen off the premises. He looked disturbed, and threw them both an apologetic glance.

  ‘You’re not seeing us at our united best, just now, gents.’ The pleasant, genial tones were troubled.

  ‘We understand, Mr Preston.’ Markham was bracing. ‘It’s been a shock.’

  The young man pumped their hands gratefully and strode off in the direction of the grottoes.

  ‘Officers!’

  Oh God, not some busybody parishioner-cum-rubbernecker. That’s all we need!

  On second thoughts, this was no gossiping bedlam, Markham told himself as he took in the fine-boned face, sleek grey bob and observant brown eyes.

  With her neat tweed jacket and skirt, colourful silk scarf knotted at the throat in an understated bow, sensible handbag and sturdy brown loafers, she looked what she was. An English, middle-class gentlewoman, without artifice or pretension, who reminded him of a much-loved aunt lost some years before.

  Noakes too seemed to approve, smoothing his hair and straightening his tie, as though ready for inspection.

  ‘My apologies for ambushing you, gentlemen.’ It was a well-bred voice. ‘My name is Georgina Hamilton.’

  Noakes did a double-take.

  The one who’d reported desecration of graves in the cathedral cemetery. Miss Marple herself!

  Fortunately, neither the DI nor Mrs Hamilton observed his confusion. Doing his best to look alert and intelligent while Markham performed the introductions, he cleared his throat. ‘How can we help you, madam?’

  Markham noticed that Mrs Hamilton was looking around furtively as though nervous.

  ‘Why don’t we pop back into the cathedral prayer room for a moment,’ he suggested. ‘It isn’t locked and there’s time for a chat before anyone arrives for Evensong.’

  No sooner said than done.

  ‘I was the one who called at the police station about interference with graves in the cemetery,’ she announced without preamble after they had sat down. ‘I know, I know,’ she said dryly, rightly interpreting the awkward silence. ‘No doubt I was dismissed as the archetypal neurotic female of a certain age.’ Her eyes twinkled disarmingly. ‘Possibly even alcoholic to boot.’

  A flush crept slowly up Noakes’s neck.

  ‘We take everything of that kind very seriously, Mrs Hamilton,’ he stuttered. ‘I went and checked it out myself. Spoke to the groundsman too. Everything was as it should be… He wasn’t aware of any unusual activity, but he’d been off sick for a few days and the company hadn’t been able to arrange a substitute. So, he couldn’t be one hundred per cent positive as to comings and goings.’

  ‘No need to justify yourself, Mr Noakes. I’m sure you did everything by the book. I’d worked myself up into quite a state that night when I went to the station. When I look back, I can’t even be sure that I didn’t imagine the whole thing… But somehow I don’t think so.’ She gave a convulsive shudder. ‘I can still hear the taller man’s voice. There was something evil about it. I’d know it again anywhere.’

  Markham felt a needle-sharp pain between his shoulder blades, all his senses suddenly on high alert.

  ‘What was it exactly that you saw, Mrs Hamilton?’ he asked levelly.

  She smiled ruefully at him. ‘It looked like an interment at the back of the Soames Vault. Afterwards, I wondered if it could have been reinterment following an exhumation.’ Her face fell. ‘I remember my late husband Geoffrey saying that reburials generally take place in the small hours to ensure maximum privacy. But this was early evening and it didn’t feel official.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘No, it didn’t feel like those gravediggers had anything to do with the cathedral. I think they’d counted on no-one being around at that time … there was something sneaky and underhand about them…’

  Interference with human remains in the cathedral graveyard. Discovery of three skeletons in the precincts of St Mary’s Choir School. Markham did not believe in coincidences. Grimly, he made an internal resolution to re-visit the matter of the Soames Monument. If that meant putting various officials’ noses out of joint – or the coroner’s for that matter – then so be it.

  ‘But I’m not here to talk about that,’ Mrs Hamilton continued briskly. ‘No. Joan the cook at St Mary’s is an old friend of mine. She used to ‘do’ for me and Geoffrey until we moved into assisted accommodation not long before Geoffrey died.’

  Georgina paused as though suddenly at a loss for words.

  It was Noakes who gently encouraged her. ‘Go on, Mrs Hamilton.’

  ‘Well.’ The earnest, intelligent face clouded over. ‘This sounds very foolish, but Joan is an eminently level-headed sensible woman with no nonsense about her… Sometimes she sleeps over at the school if there’s been a function or late dinner. There’s a little room for her at the end of one of the boys’ dormitories.’

  Again, she paused, unknotting the scarf at her throat as if it suddenly felt too tight.

  ‘Joan swears that something made her wake up one night. She listened for a while before convincing herself it was just the usual sounds and trying to settle back down to sleep. But for some reason she couldn’t drop off.’

  Georgina twisted her garnet ring round and round, looking pleadingly at the two men for reassurance.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Hamilton,’ said Markham softly. ‘Please continue.’


  ‘She said she felt there was something out there. Something wicked that made her neck prickle. She slipped out of bed and looked round her door down the dormitory. There was a light flickering, she thought. It cast a shadow on the wall. Like a hooded figure. For one crazy moment, she thought perhaps it was the ghost of a monk come back from the dead. Then the shape seemed to bend over one of the beds before straightening up, almost as though it was aware of being watched. The light went out and everything was dark again. She doesn’t know how long she stood there, rooted to the spot with fear. But eventually she went back to bed, though she didn’t sleep a wink all that night.’

  Georgina stumbled to a halt, looking flustered.

  ‘As I say, it must sound a bit daft…’

  ‘Not at all.’ Markham was authoritative. ‘You naturally wondered, in retrospect, if what Joan saw might relate to the discovery of bodies at St Mary’s.’

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty much it, Inspector.’

  ‘Has Joan spoken to anyone else about this, Mrs Hamilton?’

  ‘No, she decided to hold her peace. Felt the poor new principal had enough on his plate without having to listen to what she calls her megrims.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The DI sounded upbeat. ‘I’d like her to keep it that way. This is just between the four of us, understood?’

  ‘Do you think it could be relevant, Inspector?’ Georgina sounded uncharacteristically tremulous.

  ‘Yes, I do. I can’t tell you why at this stage, but you can take my word for it that this is very useful information.’

  Her brow cleared. ‘Thank you,’ she said with real feeling.

  ‘Can we give you a lift anywhere, Mrs Hamilton?’ Noakes enquired solicitously.

  ‘No, I could do with a walk, Detective. Thank you,’ she said again, ‘it’s a weight off my mind to have told you.’

  The two men escorted her to the door of the cathedral. Markham watched her retreating figure until it disappeared. Then he turned to his DS.